Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  4.3.20: Sturdivant

  “They tell me you’re in charge here.”

  “That’s what they tell me, too.” Lieutenant Russell Phillips of the Connecticut State Police doesn’t even waste a glance at the man who just walked up. Another damn reporter, he thinks, as he continues to lean over the picnic table and fill out his report. I told Barnes to keep them the hell away from me. Where do they all come from? Like grubs out of a rotten log.

  “Then maybe you can tell me about how you plan to catch the people who did this.”

  If this guy is a reporter, Phillips thinks, he’s a damn pushy one. Not that the rest of them are any better. The local ones are alright. But that fellah from the Hartford Courant… And that TV lady from New York, she has to be the worst. Badgering me, pressing me for information that’s none of her damn business. And treating me like I’m some kind of servant, or something…

  And now a guy with some kind of hick accent wants me to tell him how I’m going to do my job. Like I owe him some kind of explanation.

  “And just who might you be?” Phillips inquires evenly. And now he does look up, and he actually does a double-take when he sees G.W.’s big white hat looming over him. Holy shit, he thinks, it’s a damn cowboy. This guy can’t be a reporter, can he? Who is he? And how the hell did he get past the barricades? I’m going to have to talk to Barnes about this. This place is turning into a real circus.

  “My name’s G.W. Kendal. My daughter was almost killed in that house. And I wanna know just what you intend to do about it.”

  Kendal, Phillips thinks, trying to place the name. Kendal… That’s right, the guy who… “You’re the guy who flew here in the helicopter, isn’t that right? One hell of a nice way to get around, wouldn’t you say?” He stands and offers his hand to G.W., along with the most sincere smile he can muster, the smile he usually reserves for county commissioners when they come around glad-handing and politicking. G.W. accepts the handshake but does not return the smile.

  “Your daughter’s damn lucky to be alive, Mr. Kendal. I didn’t get a chance to talk to her myself, but Officer Barnes tells me that she’s a fine…”

  “Let’s cut the bullshit and get to the point, shall we?” G.W.’s eyes are as cold as steel. “A couple of hours ago, some people tried to kill my daughter. And now I hear a rumor that you people don’t intend to do anything about it. And I want to know if that’s true.”

  “Mr. Kendal,” Phillips says, “you’re upset, and I understand that.” He tries to keep his voice under control, although his patience is quickly wearing thin. “But I want to assure you that we’ll do everything in our power to investigate the incident, and I have every reason to believe that the perpetrator or perpetrators will be apprehended and brought to justice in a timely fashion.”

  “Horseshit.” G.W. spits noisily on the lawn. “Save that crap for the newspapers. This is just between me and you, man to man. I want you to tell me why half the kids who were in that house say that they know who did it, while you walk around with your head up your ass and hand me a load of turkey droppings about investigations and apprehending perpetrators.”

  Phillips’ smile vanishes. “I don’t know how you talk to your local police in Texas or wherever it is that you hail from,” he growls. “But here in New England, police officers are treated with respect. Now I suggest that you…”

  “You got any kids, Phillips?”

  Taken aback, Phillips takes a few moments to answer, then he speaks warily. “Not that it’s any of your business, but as a matter a fact I have three children. Two boys and a girl. Why?”

  “What would you do if somebody tried to kill your little girl, Phillips? Hmmm? You strike me as a man who would want some answers. And I don’t expect that you’d put up with the bullshit you’ve been handing me any more than I’m inclined to put up with it.”

  Phillips sighs and shakes his head. “G.W., did you say it was? What, do all you rich Texans just go by your initials? Like J.R.?”

  “You know,” G.W. says, “you could save me a lot of time and yourself a lot of hassle if you’d just give me a few straight answers. I ain’t expecting miracles, but if you can’t convince me that y’all are at least trying to catch the bastards who did this, I’m gonna have so many federal agents crawling up your ass that you won’t be able to shit for a year.”

  Phillips stiffens, his face contorting into an unpleasantly tight knot. “Buddy,” he says, through clenched teeth, “you may be able to get away with shit like that in Texas, but…”

  “Excuse me.” A young trooper approaches gingerly. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but…”

  “Not now,” Phillips says, never taking his eyes off G.W.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the trooper persists, “but I’ve got the governor on the sat phone.”

  “The governor?” In spite of his efforts to control it, the surprise plainly registers on Phillips’ face. He scowls at the trooper. “What could she want?” he wonders aloud as he reaches for the phone.

  “No, sir,” the trooper says, apologetically. “She wants to speak with Mr. Kendal, sir.”

  Phillips freezes for a moment, his arm suspended in mid-reach. He looks at the trooper quizzically, but the trooper just shrugs his shoulders. He looks over at G.W. and shakes his head. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he mutters.

  “Yes, ma’am,” G.W. is saying into the phone. “I do appreciate your help, but I believe that everything’s under control here. Lieutenant Phillips seems quite capable, and he’s being very helpful… Yes, ma’am, if I need any help at all, you’ll be the first to know… Yes, ma’am, he’s right here… Sure, and thanks again.”

  He extends the phone to Phillips, his face an impenetrable mask. “She wants to talk to you,” he says evenly.

  Phillips takes the phone carefully and stares at it for a few seconds before lifting it to his ear. “Lieutenant Phillips here,” he announces, actually straightening noticeably as if he’s coming to attention. “Yes, ma’am, I… Yes ma’am, of course I will… That’s right, ma’am, we’re doing… Yes ma’am, I… Yes, ma’am. I sure will. I’ll be happy to. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Returning the phone to the trooper, Phillips eyes G.W. with a mixture of annoyance and grudging admiration. “How the hell,” he asks, as the young trooper trudges off, “did you manage to pull that trick?”

  “The governor of Texas is an old school buddy of mine,” G.W. explains. “I called him from the ‘copter on the way over here. Woke him up, in fact. He offered to call your governor and grease the wheels for me, so to speak. And it looks like he did.”

  Sighing and shaking his head, Phillips turns his back to G.W. and surveys the scene. A lone firefighter is still hosing down the smoldering pile of rubble that, until recently, had been a house. Large numbers of people stroll over the lawn in all directions, and more continue to arrive. Parked cars line the road as far as he can see in both directions.

  “This used to be my uncle’s place,” Phillips says, more to himself than to G.W. “Hiram Phillips was a good man. Him and his wife were two of the finest people I’ve ever known – and I’m not just saying that because they were kin. Why they left this place to their idiot son – my cousin Elmore – I’ll never know. And how he got himself hoodwinked into giving this place to those damn hippies…”

  Once again, he stops and shakes his head, mournfully. “Uncle Hiram and Aunt Agnes loved this place. They had, oh, maybe two hundred head of dairy cattle. That’s probably not much in Texas, but that’s a good-sized herd around here. And they raised chickens, too. I don’t know what happened to the old henhouse, it used to stand right over there by the stream. The Crazies must have torn it down. I’m surprised they didn’t turn it into a drug lab, or something.”

  He turns back to face G.W. “You know,” he says, “Hiram and Agnes would be spinning in their graves if they knew what had happened to their old farm. In a way, I’m glad they’re not here to see this. Although I’ll tell you – if they knew what T
he Crazies had done to this place, I think they would’ve been glad that it burned down.” He pauses, looking intently into G.W.’s expressionless face. “And I suspect that’s the way most people around here are going to feel when they find out about it.”

  “Frankly,” G.W. says, “I don’t give a rat’s ass about how anybody here feels about anything. And as much as I’d like to spend some time shooting the shit with you, I’ve got a 747 waiting for me at the airport, and I’m running out of time and patience. So unless you want me to get back on the phone and tell your governor that I lied through my ass when I told her that you were being helpful, I think maybe you better stop telling me your family history and talk to me about what happened here this morning.”

  Phillips sighs. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Kendal,” he says, motioning to the bench on one side of the picnic table as he takes his place on the other side. G.W. ignores the gesture and remains standing, glowering down at Phillips.

  “First of all,” Phillips says, “you say that the people who lived here know who did it? Well, maybe they’re telling you about it, but they’re not telling any of my people about it. They say – and this is pretty much a direct quote from one of them – they say that they won’t participate in any activity that might result in people being deprived of their freedom.”

  “Deprived…?”

  “Sent to jail, Mr. Kendal. They’re saying, in their own peculiar way, that they’re not going to cooperate because they’re afraid that somebody might end up getting sent to jail.”

  “The hell you say.” G.W is stunned. “The hell you say,” he repeats, and sinks down heavily onto the bench across the table from Phillips. “Why…” he begins, and stops. “Who…” he says, and stops again.

  Phillips nods. “That really is some shit, isn’t it, Kendal? Somebody tries to kill them, burns their house down around them, and they refuse to testify against them. And I wouldn’t want to speak for the DA, but I know for a fact that he’s loath to prosecute cases where the victims won’t testify. It’s very difficult to secure a conviction under those circumstances – especially in a situation like this, where the victims are the only witnesses.”

  “But…” – G.W. looks confused – “…but my daughter was a witness. She’ll cooperate.”

  Phillips shakes his head; although he’s trying not to gloat, a slight smile of satisfaction starts to spread out over his face. “I’m afraid that won’t help. We’ve already interviewed her, but she was inside the house when the criminal activity occurred, and she didn’t see anything herself. All she can testify to is what she heard other people say, same as you. And while I don’t claim to be a lawyer, I’ve been in court enough times to know that that’s hearsay, and no judge will admit it into evidence.”

  “Well I’ll be…” G.W.’s expression slowly begins to change from confusion to determination. “Well, hell. Then I’m just gonna have to talk some sense into those kids, that’s all. They’re just gonna have to understand the way it is. They have to testify, by God, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Frankly, Mr. Kendal, I don’t think you’ll have any luck talking to The Cra… the ‘kids,’ as you call them. From what I understand, they just do what the head man tells them to do. He says jump, they jump. He says don’t testify, they don’t testify. They think he’s some kind of god, I guess. Don’t get me wrong, you’re welcome to try. But between you and me, I don’t think you’ll have much luck convincing them to…”

  G.W. interrupts animatedly. “You talking about this ‘Nathan’ character?”

  Phillips nods.

  “Well hell,” G.W. says, pounding on the table as he rises to his feet, “I guess I’ll just have to go have me a little heart-to-heart talk with Nathan. See if I can’t show him the error of his ways.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t do that. Not right now, anyway.”

  “And why the hell not?”

  “He’s gone. Left about half an hour ago. Right after he told his people not to talk to us. And he refuses to give us any kind of deposition himself. Hell, he had a fresh black eye and he wouldn’t even tell me who did it to him. Just took off. Just like that. Left all of his people just standing around looking at each other, wondering what the hell they’re going to do now that they’ve got no place left to live.” Phillips shakes his head, but he seems pleased. “Hard to figure, isn’t it? I mean, you’d think that he’d at least have had the gumption to stick around and help out when his followers needed him the most, wouldn’t you?”

  G.W. seems unable to comprehend this piece of information. “He left?” he asks, blinking his eyes. “Where’d he go?”

  “Beats me.” Phillips shrugs lightly, enjoying G.W.’s discomfort. “He didn’t see fit to take me into his confidence on that particular point. But I seem to recall him saying something about having to catch a plane.”

  “A plane…” G.W. exhales sharply with an audible whoosh, almost as if he’s been punched in the gut. “Awww, shit,” he says. Reaching out to steady himself on the picnic table, he eases himself back down onto the bench. “That’s what Jill was trying to tell me. Not a plane,” he says weakly. “The son of a bitch is flying to Qen Phon on my plane.”

  Transition

  Book 4: Danger

  Part 4:

  The Flight

  4.4.1: Bradley International Airport

  “The young ladies have not yet arrived, Señor Kendal,” Manolo informs G.W., who has just climbed to the top of the mobile stairway and is stepping into his airplane. “But some others did arrive just a few minutes ago.” Manolo stresses the word others, as if he’s not quite sure of how to categorize them. “They say they are friends of your daughter’s,” he adds, his tone suggesting that he’s reluctant to accept them at their word, or perhaps that he hopes that they’re lying so he can throw them out. “I showed them to the lounge,” he adds, somewhat apologetically. “I hope that…”

  “That’s fine, Manolo,” G.W. reassures him. But when he enters the plane, he turns away from the lounge and walks briskly to the spiral staircase that graces what used to be the first-class compartment. “I’ll be upstairs. Let me know when Jill gets here.”

  In the office, G.W. pauses at his desk long enough to slug down a quick shot of bourbon from a flask that he keeps in the bottom drawer. Re-capping the flask, he returns it to its place, opens the bedroom door, and walks in.

  Sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard, Barbara Anne looks up from her book. “Well?” she demands. “Is she alright?” Clearly, she’s been worrying – but her concern is mixed with a dose of anger, as though having to worry is an unwelcome inconvenience.

  “She’s fine,” G.W. soothes. “Didn’t the driver get a message to you? I told him…”

  “Yes, I got the message.” And in answer to her husband’s puzzled expression, she explains, “I just wanted to hear it from you.”

  Moving to the side of the bed, G.W. reaches out to pat his wife’s head, as he might comfort one of his dogs. To his surprise, Barbara Anne’s arms encircle his waist, and she rests her head against his chest. “It’s been on TV,” she says, in a flat voice. She sounds drained. Although there are no apparent signs, G.W. guesses that she’s been crying. “There’s nothing left of the house. They keep saying how amazing it was that no one was…” She lets the rest go unsaid.

  More amazing than you know, G.W. thinks, as he strokes her hair. “Oh, you know how those TV people like to exaggerate,” he says.

  “Who are those people downstairs?” Barbara Anne releases him and leans back against the headboard. “Manolo says that three of Jillian’s ‘friends’ are coming with us. From his description, one of them sounds like that horrible Nathan person I saw on TV.”

  G.W. looks pained. “I’m afraid it is,” he says mournfully. “The other two must be his followers, or whatever he calls them.” The Crazies, he thinks. “I think Jill tried to tell me, but I guess I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  “I don’t want t
hem on the plane, G.W.,” Barbara Anne snaps, slipping smoothly from concern into anger. “If Jillian hadn’t been associating with those people, none of this would have happened to her in the first place.”

  “I don’t much want them on the plane myself,” G.W. admits. “But Jill invited them, so I don’t guess there’s a whole lot we can do about it.”

  “Whatever led Jillian to think she could do that?” Barbara Anne demands, hotly. “This isn’t her plane, it’s our plane. Honestly!”

  “Now, don’t go getting yourself all in a snit, honey. I told Jill she could ask a few people to come with us if she wanted to. And I guess she passed the offer along to Sunshine. But I never dreamed…”

  “Well, I hope nobody expects me to entertain them,” Barbara Anne huffs. “My God, I’m glad the Cautwells decided not to come. Charlene would have been absolutely horrified, having to fly all the way to Qen Phon with those people. I would never have heard the end of it.”

  “You don’t have to see them at all if you don’t want to. I kinda figured you’d want to stay up here and catch up on your sleep, anyway.”

  “I do,” Barbara Anne confirms with a languid yawn. “But I don’t like the idea of even being on the same plane with those people. They give me the creeps. There was a story about them on the news. Really revolting. Especially that Nathan.” She shivers in distaste. “I’d be so much happier if they hadn’t come.”

  “Well,” says G.W. thoughtfully, “if you’d like, I could always pitch them off the plane somewhere over the ocean.”

  “Would you?” Barbara Anne asks. And for a moment, G.W. thinks that she’s serious. “I’d really appreciate it, G.W.,” she adds, fluttering her eyes coquettishly. “It would give me such a great deal of pleasure.”

  ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍ ֍

  When Jillian finally appears in the bedroom, Barbara Anne treats her to a brief hug. (When was the last time that happened? Jillian wonders) Then, as the plane taxies to the runway, she treats Jillian to a lecture on the danger of associating with “the wrong people.”